December Calendar Challenge 2017
by Kitschgeist
Summary: I joined Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge late, so I aim to fill at least 23 prompts. I let the December deadline whoosh by, but I will still finish this.
1. A reindeer in Baker Street

Dec 9: "A reindeer in Baker Street", from mrspencil.

I fell (not _too_ far) down the internet research rabbit-hole, went with something less specific than a reindeer, and made this sprawl out really far from the prompt. Enjoy...?

* * *

Extracts from the diary of Dr. John H. Watson

 _November 9, 1887_

All these years, I have had the privilege of accompanying Sherlock Holmes on many a case. So many, that I really must organise my notes soon. Some cases were even more intriguing than the Jefferson Hope case that started it all. I yearn to tell others about them, but my spirits are dampened when I remember it has taken me nearly six years to write an account of our first adventure fit for publication.

I can already picture the sneer Holmes would give in response to my dramatic treatment of the events of the case, were he to read it in its final form. But was it not he, waxing lyrical about his work, who provided me with the poetic title 'A Study in Scarlet'? I now realise he knows more of literature than I first thought.

At any rate, as much as I wish to both indulge my love of writing and help my friend receive the recognition he deserves, telling this story in a magazine to be read by the fireside during winter and forgotten at the first hint of spring seems to be the best I can do. Writing a novel is challenging work, I am not sure I can manage it again.

 _November 12_

Yesterday evening, Holmes and I took our victuals at The White Hart on the corner of Baker Street and Park Road. I have not mentioned here before that the publican, Mr William Weiss, a man of German descent, is a friend of Holmes.

He told me that Holmes had, in his Montague Street days, assisted him with some matters that involved letters from his relatives in Germany. Indeed, neither man could have foreseen how useful knowledge of German handwriting would be for the case published as A Study in Scarlet (out on news-stands now!).

 _November 19_

Holmes and Mr Weiss have been conspiring.

I entered our rooms, only to be greeted by a demonic deer, who introduced himself as 'Krampus'. I remarked that there were no children about. Holmes-the-Krampus said the Irregulars were due for a briefing in a few days. I said I was absolutely against him meeting them in his so-called costume.

Holmes tries to use the fact that Christmas trees are also a Teutonic import as a defence. He misses the point.

 _November 22_

The Irregulars were neither scared nor amused - simply unimpressed. Since they left, the Krampus has been playing minor-key Christmas carols on his violin non-stop.

I have been trying to organise my notes on Holmes' cases, but doing so is harder than I thought. Perhaps I should not continue. I do not know if I will have an audience to write for by the time I am finished.

 _December 1_

Beeton's Christmas Annual is sold out.

* * *

 **Notes:**

The White Hart ('hart' meaning a stag) is a popular British pub name, but there is/was no such pub on Baker Street. There was no 221B Baker Street at the time of Arthur Conan "I'd never been to Baker Street when I decided on the address" Doyle's writing, either, so...yeah.

'William Weiss' was very, very loosely inspired by William David Schwarz, who was the publican of The Volunteer on Baker Street from 1881-84, then again from 1891-99, according to the website pubshistory. I say 'very, very loosely' because I know nothing about him but his name, age (14 in 1871, second son of the publican of the Crown & Sceptre), and occupation.

During the interval, W.D. Schwarz was publican of The Rising Sun on Tottenham Court Road from 1888-89. Whether he stayed put at either place from '85-'87 but the records the contributors of pubshistory referred to didn't show it, or he went elsewhere, I have no idea. I also have no idea exactly when Beeton's Christmas Annual went up for sale and when it was sold out, or if it being sold out was that unusual.


	2. The Irregulars look after Watson

Dec 10: "During Holmes's hiatus, the Irregulars look after Watson", from Hades Lord of the Dead.

Just one Irregular, in this case.

* * *

When Watson opened his front door, he was met with a young man in costermonger's garb, standing sheepishly with his hands behind his back.

"Colin!" cried Watson, pleasantly surprised. "What brings you here?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral, Doctor." Colin said.

"Oh, Colin, please don't feel guilty. I saw your sister leaving flowers on his grave the other day; she told me everything. I'm sure your father was grateful to have all of his children by his side," Watson assured him.

"I'd... rather have seen Mr Holmes in his last days, to be honest," sighed Colin. "Been years since I last saw him."

To keep his face from falling, Watson turned his thoughts to nostalgia. "You were this tall when I first met you," he said, holding a hand at the level of his elbows.

Colin rolled his eyes and smirked at the welcome change of topic. "An' I did everything I could to get out of helping our old man. He didn't make a fuss when I ran with the Irregulars, 'cause of the pay. But you know I didn't do it just for the pay, Doctor."

Watson smiled at him. "He couldn't thank you enough. You were all good, brave lads."

"Not to start with, no! But we got better, thanks to Mr Holmes."

Watson tried to reply, but the words would not leave his throat. He coughed and smiled again. Colin looked at him in understanding.

"I brought something for you and Mrs Watson." Colin held out a small hessian sack, tilting it to show Watson the three apples it contained. "Fresh and ripe. I ate one myself this morning. No, I won't take any money, Doctor! I owe you and Mr Holmes so much, please!"

With his protests pre-emptively shut down, Watson reluctantly accepted the gift. "Thank you, Colin."

"Well, I'll be off now," said Colin, doffing his hat. "Got to put you out of business."

"Out of business?"

"'Eat an apple on going to bed, an' you'll keep the doctor from earning his bread'," replied Colin.

The doctor laughingly shook his head as Colin waved him goodbye, striding towards his parked handcart filled with produce.


	3. Checking the list

Dec 11: "Checking the list", from Book girl fan.

* * *

An extract from the diary of Mycroft Holmes

To-do:

1\. Enquire about Trepoff murder [x]

2\. Cut short Egyptian artefact auction on Friday [x]

3\. Send mail-order catalogue to M. Dubois at Deuxième Bureau [x]

4\. Luncheon with Viscount of Fetherstonhaugh on Saturday [x]

5\. Tea at Royal Observatory on Sunday [x]

6\. Propose new menu items for the Diogenes [x]

7\. Hansom cab driving practice [x]

8\. Send veterinarian to check on PM's dog [x]

9\. Enquire about state of seat cushions on back benches of House of Lords [x]

10\. Buy Christmas gift for Sherlock [ ]


	4. Decorating Scotland Yard

Dec 12: "Decorating Scotland Yard", from mrspencil.

* * *

Inspector Hopkins entered the office. Boughs of holly and mistletoe were atop every spare surface.

"The Christmas spirit is much stronger this year, I see?"

Inspector Lestrade looked up from his desk. "We didn't buy any decorations."

"Then what is all this?" Hopkins asked, waving his arms to indicate the greenery.

"Evidence, re-purposed," replied Lestrade. Hopkins furrowed his brow.

"The strange case of the fruitcake poisoners. Happened while you were out of town," Lestrade explained. "A well-to-do young man wanted to marry a baker's daughter. His mother, a widow, would not let a woman of humble stock anywhere near the family fortune. Knowing the old lady had a notoriously weak stomach, but a love of fruitcake, which contains bits of who knows what, and that few would bat an eyelid at large amounts of holly and mistletoe this season, the couple decided to try some new recipes."

Hopkins blinked. "So was she poisoned?"

"Well, not to death, but enough to arouse her suspicions. We got to the bottom of it when we searched the bakery. The girl's family was in on the plan, too."

"That has rather put me off of fruitcake."

"I don't particularly like it," shrugged Lestrade.

"Lucky that the girl wasn't a chemist's daughter," Hopkins said. "Then they might have had a more efficient plan."

"Maybe," said Lestrade. "But, mind you, this wasn't all the evidence."

"Just as well. This is more than enough decorations for us."

"Oh, no, it wasn't more greenery. It was dead rats."

"Dead rats? Why did... oh, was it to test the poison?"

"Right you are," said Lestrade, with an amused glint in his eyes.

"Well, dead rats aren't very festive."

"Exactly why I didn't bring them back, Hopkins."


	5. Heaven

Dec 13: "Heaven", from Wordwielder.

* * *

Our father was the last Seamus in our family. He took it upon himself to break tradition, hoping the sins of our forebears would never be repeated if the name died with him. He also had another, more practical reason for not passing on the name to his sons - Seamus was a name from our Irish past, but England was where our family had carved out a future. Yet, because our father did many things in half measures, he named all three of us 'James'.

Some of my earliest memories were of the lengthy beltings he gave me whenever he felt I had misbehaved. But after mother's brush with death during her youngest son's birth, he became a deeply religious man, and began to give me improvised sermons during the beltings.

"Son, this is for your future. You could be the first of us in a long while to rise straight to heaven, if only you'd shape up," he would say.

I had built up my pain tolerance by then, and I had little incentive to please my father because I thought I could do without going to heaven. I missed listening to my grandparents' stories by the fireside; the idea that I could meet them again in the fires of hell had its appeal at the time. Repenting and being stuck in purgatory with my father sounded worse.

Besides, I always thought that if any one of us truly stood a chance of passing through the pearly gates, it was my younger brother.

Young Jamie was born several years after us, but we were little over a year apart in age, and as thick as thieves despite our differences in temperament. Though I reminded our father too much of himself in his younger days, James the Second (as children, we play-acted as royalty) was the angel of a son he had wished for. He worried I would be a bad influence on him, but he remained as polite and conscientious as I was brash and stubborn.

Enlisting in the army gave me a chance to fulfill my dream of adventuring on the edges of the Empire, setting foot in places I once only knew existed from cramped words on newsprint. The one thing I miss about England is my brothers - though James knows he will always be my favourite, even if I do not spell it out in my letters. It warms my heart to hear he is doing well at college. I believe it will not be long before he becomes a professor himself.


	6. Ice sculpting

Dec 14: "Ice sculpting", from mrspencil.

I don't know if _any_ of this is possible or plausible, so here goes nothing.

* * *

"Two households, alike in dignity, in fair Nottingham, where we lay our scene," Holmes commented, as he surveyed the room containing the box that previously held a valuable heirloom. It was a golden livery collar that had been the subject of dispute between two minor noble houses for generations, and we had arrived at the manor the day after it was reported missing.

The latest generation did not wish to perpetuate the old grudge, for one family's youngest son had married the other's youngest daughter, and the newlyweds convinced their relatives into holding a lavish banquet for them, at the residence of the family that held the collar.

The couple's relatives reacted to the match with varying degrees of scepticism, but during the celebration, both sides agreed it was about time the other family was allowed to set eyes on the item again. However, when it was to be retrieved, they discovered it was gone, and the reconciliatory spirit quickly disappeared.

Holmes turned his attention to the box itself. It appeared to be fairly new, and custom-made: it was not a robust strongbox, but it was made entirely of metal, and bolted to the bottom of the inside of a wardrobe.

"Look at this, Watson," said he, crouching and pointing at its keyhole.

I bent down to peer at it. "I do not see anything amiss."

"Indeed, you would not," he said. "The one remarkable feature is that there is slightly more oxidation on the very edges of the keyhole, but that does not seem out of the ordinary. There are no signs of lock-picking, no scratches. Yet, between the time the collar was last seen and when it was found missing, the key was kept by the master of the house on his person."

"Do you think he was responsible for this?" I gasped.

"No, I am sure he did not stage this. What this means is the culprit had inside help both before and during the theft. The old man does not usually carry the key with him, it is possible a household servant was able to make a cast of it."

"Is your suspect a metalworker, then?"

Holmes shook his head. "He is more familiar with another medium. Recall what we were told about the banquet: in keeping with the season, they displayed an intricate ice sculpture as a centrepiece. My guess is that the thief either carved a key from solid ice, or froze water in the cast and fine-tuned the resulting piece. The weather is certainly convenient for that."

"Holmes," I said, astounded, "I would never have thought...!"

"Neither did I, until we got here. There's no time to lose - our sculptor suspect has left town, but with any luck, we may still intercept him!"


	7. Knitted socks

Dec 15: "Knitted socks", from Wordwielder.

* * *

When I got up in the morning, I found that Holmes had left our rooms at some early hour (I eliminated multiple impossibilities, including, with some disappointment, the thought that he had discovered the secret to invisibility). It was not the first time he had disappeared on a mysterious errand, and it certainly would not be the last.

Holmes came back in the evening, just as I was chewing my last bite of dinner.

"I hoped to join you, Watson, but it appears I am too late," he said, as he divested himself of his rain-soaked coat.

"Well, I assume that is no fault of yours. Mrs Hudson said you told her you would be back for dinner," I said.

He hummed in acknowledgement and made his way to his armchair by the fireside. "I'll warm up before I send for my portion," he said, taking off his boots and examining each of them. He poked at a well-hidden tear near the instep of the left one, then set it down.

With a resigned sigh, he stretched out his legs towards the fire to dry his feet, which donned a pair of vivid red knitted socks, enhanced by a snowflake-like pattern in green.

"The suspect is innocent. He could not have covered that much ground on foot," said Holmes, either answering the question he thought I wanted to ask, or talking to himself, as he often did. By now, I mostly did not bother with the distinction.

"Excellent news for him, but I was wondering about your socks."

"Ah, these were a Christmas present," he replied.

"From whom?" I asked.

"Mycroft."

"Oh, I see. A very striking pair."

"They are one-of-a-kind," he chuckled. "Mycroft disdains legwork, but he has no such qualms about handiwork."


	8. A long day in the cold and wet

Dec 16: "A long day in the cold and wet", from Book girl fan.

I'm back! Hope I can catch up. This and the next two ended up having a theme...

* * *

Rain had washed away the set of footprints. Now the ground bore no trace of the man who walked there in his last moments.

Watson sighed. This wouldn't do for Holmes. He would grumble about careless Yarders and nosy passers-by whenever they tampered with a crime scene. He would curse at the sky if he saw this.

The skies had been clear that morning. Dark clouds were nowhere to be seen, and Watson's spirits were nearly as bright as the sun.

But by the time he called for the police, there was a drizzle, and hours later, as they combed the area and its surrounds, it had become a downpour.

Watson turned away from the muddy patch of ground. As far as it was concerned, the footsteps of one man were the same as those of any of the people who had ever stood upon it. They were all no more than a temporary disturbance to the earth. It would never remember.

But Watson would always remember. He had no choice.

Clutching the handwritten message in his pocket, he walked down to the Englischer Hof, alone, for the second time that day.


	9. An unsigned letter

Dec 17: "An unsigned letter," from Winter Winks 221.

* * *

Dear sir,

You know who I am. You know me very well, by now. And you must have always known that the only reason I kept up the pretence of corresponding about academic matters was in case someone intercepted our letters. We need not burden the postal system any longer. I trust you will find this letter in a most convenient location.

There is no turning back. Yet, I am prepared, and so are you, I'm sure. It is fortunate that our paths crossed, don't you agree? It takes art to have held a duel of this scale entirely in the shadows. I cannot say I did not enjoy facing such a worthy opponent - an equal, I dare say, and this is despite one of us having what he thought was the advantage of numbers. I think I understand, now, the thrill of seeing the dark horse gain the lead, of hunting game that is capable of hunting you.

But as we both know, one of us must fall. A tie would be no way to end this match.

We shall meet in earnest, at last.


	10. Hero

Dec 18: "Hero", from Hades Lord of the Dead.

Partially inspired by a quote from Lyndsay Faye, about Joseph Campbell, as quoted by Zach Dundas in his book The Great Detective. Google it. Not going to put it here because of the rating...

Also, becoming reminded of the Homeric authorship issue recently was amusing, in relation to this.

* * *

A hero's duty is to leave the world he knows, to venture into the unknown. And this, too, he makes known: a gift to the world he must be one step ahead of, the world forever chasing his shadow.

A hero is to return from his odyssey. That is his fate. Even if he remains hiding in the mountains, he is to break free in a time of great need. Whether he does is irrelevant - his story precedes him, becomes him.

A man becomes a hero when his epic is sung. There is no shortage of singers for my brother's epic, but if we have a Homer, it is the good doctor Watson.

What was once upon a time the truest ending of a story may someday be replaced. I will take every measure to see that Watson lives to tell a different tale.


	11. This is a gentleman's game, madam

Dec 19: "This is a gentleman's game, madam," from Book girl fan.

December is a feeling in your heart.

...I'll finish the challenge, I promise.

Characters are from The Greek Interpreter.

* * *

Wilson Kemp and Harold Latimer looked as different as night and day, but in spirit they were two of a kind. While they travelled together, the two men would play cards every evening. I thought those times were when they most seemed like brothers. If they traded gibes and cursed their luck, it was with no true ill intent. And they did not play with high stakes - they saved those for when they worked together, away from the gaming table.

I watched them on those lonely evenings. I had few other ways to spend my time.

Latimer - Harold, he once was to me - gave me no notice. But Kemp sneered. "This is a gentleman's game, madam," that devil would say, with a sickening giggle.

Early on, I would give him a cold, hateful look in return, only slightly harsher than the one I wore throughout every day I spent with them. But as we travelled further east, I grew tired.

My brother must have been tired, back then. Yet he held firm. His memory haunted me. He suffered for my mistakes, he protected me while he could. I could not falter under the weight of his death. His memory steadied my hand.

I let myself fall into these men's power because I was careless. I knew I could not be careless in my escape.

Eventually, Latimer and Kemp had an argument that time did not smooth over. I saw the change in the atmosphere during their regular game. Kemp did not comment on my presence, too busy eyeing Latimer with contempt.

In their own way, they were careless, too. He who has a rival ignores other players.

More importantly, they did not know their rules. It was not a gentleman's game. There never were any gentlemen in it.


	12. It's snowing in London!

Dec 20: "It's snowing in London!" from cjnwriter.

* * *

That fateful day Holmes made me aware of my tendency to see without observing, my world was turned upside-down. Though I knew I would in all likelihood never reach Holmes' level of mastery of his methods, from then on, I made it a point to observe the finer details of familiar surroundings.

One morning in winter, when it had snowed the previous night, I exited our rooms to find the porch steps caked in a decadent layer of snow, like thick frosting on a cake. With a surprising surge of childlike whimsy, I took slow, deliberate steps to leave behind clear impressions of my feet. I hoped the snow would not melt or be swept away by the time I returned from my appointment with a patient, so I could see the evidence of my movements again.

When I returned, a path had been cleared through the snow in middle of the steps. My footprints were gone, but there was still some snow towards the sides of the steps. As I examined the remaining snow, I saw something that baffled me.

"Holmes," I said, the moment I entered our rooms, "have you seen the porch?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "What about it?"

"In the snow, there were footprints-"

"I would expect as much!"

"Really, Holmes, let me finish. They were the footprints of a gigantic-"

"Hound?" He had walked over to the fireplace and picked up a poker. Attached to its end was a plaster cast of a large paw.

"They made such an impression in Dartmoor," he explained, "I thought I would see if they would be as striking back home. Apparently, they are."


	13. Irene's Christmas

Dec 21: "Irene's Christmas", from I'm Nova.

* * *

"Are you sure you want see one of those?" I asked Irene. I was with her at Briony Lodge yet again. We had long exhausted the legal advice I had to offer, but we found each other's companionship much more valuable this way. "Someone of your experience, I would have thought, that is to say... I thought you would have grown used to more sophisticated entertainment."

"Godfrey!" she teased. "Do you really think I'm that much of a snob? It was you who told me about pantomimes. You knew I would be interested."

Of course she would be interested, she loved all theatre. But the more I thought about it, the more I worried her impression of England would suffer if our homely humour did not live up to her expectations. Perhaps I worried her impression of me would suffer.

"You've been to the great stages of Europe," I said. "How can two men sharing a horse costume compare to that?"

"Have you ever seen opera?"

"I wish I had." I knew little of the arts before I met Irene. Beyond its most common forms, I thought it was world apart from me.

"Opera is not what you seem to think it's like," she said, with a self-deprecating smile. "It's filled with people screaming at each other, and women in breeches. And the things the characters do - what I'd give for someone in the audience to shout at them for being idiots!"

"That does sound familiar," I smiled.

"Then, please, let's see a pantomime."

"Alright. This could be your last Christmas here, after all."

"I think it will be, sadly. But," she fixed me with a warm gaze that stole the breath from my lungs, "I hope it will not be the last Christmas I spend with you."


	14. That's not my name!

Dec 22: "That's not my name!" from Winter Winks 221.

Novel title lifted from an untold case mentioned in The Five Orange Pips.

* * *

Winter had come and gone, which meant it was high time for spring cleaning. I never considered myself particularly fastidious about my surroundings, but my fellow-lodger's habits made me look this way, in comparison.

While going through the bric-a-brac I had accumulated over the years, I chanced upon a well-worn yellow-backed novel. I confess I owned a number of these, but I had never read or even seen _The Island of Uffa_ by H. Grice Paterson before.

I opened its cover and saw it bore a book-plate that, instead of a full name, featured the initials "S.H.". Naturally, I asked the only S.H. in my immediate vicinity if it was one of his belongings that he had misplaced.

"Perish the thought," he said, looking at the book's cover disdainfully. I raised an eyebrow, and flipped open the cover to reveal the basis for my suspicion.

"That's not my name!"

"Well, I have to believe you. I don't think you would have have put a book-plate on a book you would deny owning. But do you have any idea how something owned by an unknown person with the same initials as you has ended up here?"

"Yes, I do. Watson, do you know who the previous tenant of 221B was?"

"No, it was vacant when we moved in, and I never found out."

"The previous tenant had the initials S.H., therefore this book must have been his."

"Ah, not such a mystery after all - simply a coincidence! What was his name, though?"

"His name," said Holmes, "was Sheridan Hope."


	15. A snow globe disaster

Dec 23: "A snow globe disaster", from mrspencil.

Disclaimer: No regard for how snowglobes are put together.

* * *

Ebenezer Askew's Snowglobe Emporium was closed for the day. Its proprietor, Mr Ebenezer Askew, arrived at the front door with his two companions and unlocked it. He was a large, solidly-built man, seemingly at odds with the delicate nature of his merchandise. His acquaintances compared him to a bull who, instead of running in a china shop, ran a china shop. In his distress about his current situation, he opened the door too roughly, sending flakes of white paint that had been clinging to the door frame for dear life fluttering to the ground. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson followed Askew indoors.

"I was on holiday, and… Theft, I would understand, but murder…" Askew said, shaking his head.

"Murder?" gasped Watson.

"You'll see," said Holmes, as the trio walked past the shop counter and between the shelves that held the snowglobes.

Askew gestured at a row of snowglobes. His visitors peered at the items. Their glass globes were perfectly intact, but inside each was a scene of destruction. Cottages were upside-down amidst fallen pine trees. Horses had broken free of their reins and left their carriages overturned. Carollers lay sprawled on church rooftops. Father Christmas was snapped in half at the waist.

"Er," said Watson.

"Who could have done such a thing?" said Holmes.

"And why?" added Askew.

"Er," repeated Watson.

"Come now, I told you it would be a peculiar case!" said Holmes.

"It truly is. What is your theory about this?" Watson asked.

"I have a few. It is too early to settle on one."

"The only reason I could think of was that someone wanted to hurt my business," said Askew.

"But why not just steal the snowglobes, as you said earlier?" Holmes said. "Or destroy them. It would have been much easier."

"Perhaps it was done by a monomaniac intent on causing disasters within snowglobes," offered Watson.

"Oh, Watson, that sounds like what Lestrade said about those busts of Napoleon," Holmes chuckled. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Mr Askew, are the affected snowglobes all from the same manufacturer?"

"Yes, they are."

"I have settled on my theory!" cried Holmes, grasping Watson by the shoulders. "Quick, let's check those snowglobe craftsmen's criminal records!" Holmes turned and strode towards the door.

Askew turned towards Watson in awe. "Do you always solve cases this fast?"

"No," said Watson. "I think we're ahead of schedule, today."


	16. Balderdash

Dec 24: "Balderdash", from Wordwielder.

* * *

"Balderdash," I said.

"Poppycock," said Holmes.

"Twaddle."

"Claptrap."

"Hogwash."

"Drivel."

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "It is just another rumour spread by a hack, but don't you see why I had to mention it? The case had a tinge of that Milverton piece of yours, Dr Watson."

"Oh, yes, that it did," Holmes said, looking at me.

"It is possible it was Holmes who broke into that house," I said. "But we must also consider all other tall, thin, sharp-nosed, clean-shaven men with masks over their eyes before accepting that offensive conclusion."

"Exactly," Holmes agreed. "And the other man, who could not be described by witnesses, why, he could easily have been Watson!"

I looked sharply at Holmes.

"I mean to say I have not the faintest idea what you were doing on the night of the incident. Were you with your wife? Perhaps you saw a patient. Or you may have been at your club. You could have been at any one of a number of places, including there," said Holmes. "But I would only be able to say with certainty that you were not at the scene if I was there myself. Which I was not."

"This is getting rather philosophical," said Lestrade.

"Balderdash!" I said again, disbelievingly. "Holmes, am I not above suspicion?"

"I am merely exercising a healthy degree of scepticism, as our friend Lestrade here-"

"Don't bring me into this!"

"You brought this to us," Holmes pointed out.

"Do you think I am a doctor by day and a masked vigilante by night?" I demanded.

"I have never seen you and this masked man in the same place. That is a fact," Holmes said, crossing his arms.

"Really!" I shook my head in annoyance.

"You claim you could not have seen either masked man," Lestrade put in.

"Indeed. And so I have never seen him and Watson together."

"Is your plan to shift suspicion away from yourself by transferring it onto me?" I said, disgusted.

"Some people," Holmes glanced at Lestrade, "think one of the men was me. Why should the other not be you?"

I glared at Holmes. "Because he wasn't!"

"Ah," said Lestrade, clearing his throat. "The speculation in these sorts of papers, I suppose it is no good to put too much stock into it. There really is not much to back up this particular rumour, is there? The things they come up with as excuses to print famous names. It's...amusing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be going."

Lestrade stood and exited the sitting room without further ado.

Holmes heaved a sigh of relief. "That was easier than I thought. Good show. Your bull pup does come in handy, Watson."

"I'm glad it does. It was a close call," I said. "A very close call."


End file.
